Chapter Three

PHYLLIDA, formally Lady Phyllida Monthalf, had bowls of mutton stew and crispy bread on the table as soon as Emma and I reached our flat near the bookshop. The smells of roast and gravy and warm rolls reminded me how I’d not had time for even a cup of tea all day. I rushed through our prayers as my stomach growled in hope.

I’d told Emma all I’d learned that day and, while I dug in, she repeated everything to Phyllida. As Emma talked about the blood on the floor, I watched as terror flashed through Phyllida’s eyes.

Ten years earlier, I’d seen that same terror when I first met her, at her brother’s London town house. After a week of trying to interest Scotland Yard, a street lad named Jacob had learned from a policeman of the existence of the Archivist Society. He’d begged us to investigate the disappearance of an East End prostitute named Annie at an address in an upper-crust neighborhood belonging to Earl Monthalf. Our own inquiries convinced us that something was amiss and we decided to gain entrance to Earl Monthalf’s home to search for the woman.

We’d discovered that our suspect and his sister lived there, but no one had seen his sister in a decade. Earl Monthalf came and went by the front door, but he allowed no one into his fortresslike house. The front door was locked and bolted. Ornate grilles covered all the windows, making entrance that way impossible. The easiest access was by the kitchen door, and by watching, we discovered Earl Monthalf opened it at ten in the morning for the daily deliveries.

Adam Fogarty, invalided out of the police force, took over for one of the regular deliverymen and I followed, planning to slip in while Fogarty kept Earl Monthalf busy. My job was to search for any sign of the missing woman and rescue her if possible. Jacob was outside to call the police if we were successful. We didn’t think anything could go wrong.

When I slipped in the kitchen door, I encountered a cowering wretch, who stared at me, backing away until she bumped into the sink. Her frock was stained, sweat slid down her cheek, and I could see fading bruises on her face and arms. “Go away,” she said. “It’s not safe here.”

Fogarty, Jacob, and I had wondered why we’d seen nothing of a domestic staff come and go from this house. “Who are you?”

“Lady Phyllida Monthalf.”

She looked pitiful, and I immediately felt sorry for her. Seeing a lady, the daughter and sister of lords, in such a bedraggled state in this basement kitchen made me wonder what had caused her downfall. “You don’t need to fear me. I can help.” I moved forward and squeezed her hand.

She looked toward the next room, where we could hear Fogarty and Earl Monthalf’s voices. She trembled as she pushed me toward the door. “You can’t help. There’s no escape. Hasn’t been for years.”

“Lady Phyllida, was there a woman here named Annie? Where has she gone?”

“She’s still alive, poor soul. Chained to a bed on the first floor, but still alive when I took her breakfast this morning.”

If this beaten, dirty drudge called Annie a poor soul, what would I find upstairs? “Has this happened before?”

“Dozens of times. Dozens of them. It’s terrible.” Her blue eyes flashed defiance for an instant, and I recognized an ally in this investigation.

I heard the men raise their voices in argument and knew I didn’t have much time. “Thank you.” Hurrying over to the back staircase, I climbed it as silently as I could.

Up two flights of stairs, I began to open doors. The first bedroom, opulently decorated for a man, was empty. The second, resembling a tidy jail cell, also was empty. The third contained an iron bedstead with soiled linens and a scrawny, filthy victim with big, staring eyes.

She was chained to the bed in such a way that her attempts to free herself had failed, leaving her with bloody fingers. By moving to the other side of the bed, I was able to unchain her quickly.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

She nodded and struggled to her feet. Leaning on me, we moved slowly and noisily down the two flights of stairs. She was surprisingly heavy and we banged into walls as I awkwardly hurried her along. I knew there was no way Earl Monthalf hadn’t heard us. I kept looking behind and in front of us, but no one gave chase or blocked our way.

When we reached the basement floor, Monthalf stood between us and the door, a knife in his hand. There was no sign of Fogarty.

He walked toward us, smiling. “Two of you to have fun with. Where shall I start?”

Mesmerized by the blade, I didn’t see Phyllida until her brother tumbled unconscious to the floor. She stood staring at us, a cast-iron skillet clenched in both thin hands. Then I ran for the outside door, screaming for help and jostling Annie as I half dragged her along.

The police quickly arrived and medical aid was summoned for Annie and Fogarty, who’d been attacked by Monthalf. Fogarty was furious that his limp had given away his weakness. Monthalf had knocked his injured leg out from under him and then beat Fogarty senseless, leaving Monthalf free to attack us in the kitchen.

Monthalf awoke in chains and was taken to Newgate to await trial. I brought Phyllida home with me when the police began to tear apart the house to find the remains of other missing prostitutes. What started as a temporary refuge a decade before had quickly become her home.

“Will you two be safe?” was Phyllida’s only comment once she’d smoothed her narrow-boned features into mild interest.

“Yes, Aunt,” Emma said, using the honorary title we both employed.

“I doubt we’ll be in any danger but I don’t know what we have: an abduction, a runaway, or a simple misunderstanding,” I told her.

Phyllida gave me a hard look, but she said, “You’ll figure it out. In the meantime, I should plan meals that will fit in with your odd schedules. You are taking on the investigation?”

“I think so.”

“Then your schedules will be disrupted.” She took another bite of her stew. Despite being better fed living with me, she’d never lost her gaunt look.

I smiled. “You always manage to keep the household running no matter how much disorder Emma and I cause.”

“I don’t do that much,” Phyllida said. As much as I was in her debt for the help she’d given me over the years, she still felt as if she wasn’t earning her place. Her brother had left scars on her soul that Emma and I would never be able to erase.

“You save me dealing with the laundress and the grocer and the char. I can’t run the bookshop and take care of our home, too.”

Emma said around a mouthful of stew, “This is wonderful. You are the best cook in the world.”

Phyllida dipped her head, but I saw the blush of pride on her cheeks.

After dinner, Emma and I hurried downstairs and out the door onto the street. In the shelter of the narrow porch, I put the hood of my gabardine cloak over my hat and turned in the opposite direction from the bookshop, wishing there was something equally rain repellent for the hem of my skirt.

Fortunately, the rain held off for most of our walk, and we were out at a time when we didn’t have to wait as long to dash across the streets between carriages. What light there was, from street lamps, shop windows, and carriage lamps, made the wet, shiny pavement look smooth as silk.